


The Hunger Songfic Challenge 9: Metric - Monster Hospital

by BellaFuckingRockwell



Series: Bella's 10 Songfics for 10 Songs Challenge [9]
Category: David Bowie (Musician), The Hunger (TV 1997)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Caning, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Drugging, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Porn Watching, Verbal Humiliation, Violence, non-con warning for said drugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 18:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20295667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaFuckingRockwell/pseuds/BellaFuckingRockwell
Summary: I've done an old exercise that used to rattle around the LiveJournal fic communities. The exercise is that you put your music library on shuffle and you write a fic in a certain fandom based on the first 10 songs that come up. They're usually meant to be drabbles, but I personally don't do drabbles bc I'm a verbose mf so they're just a bunch of short fics instead. My chosen fandom is The Hunger TV show and pairing throughout is Julian/Drew. They're loosely linked but aren't meant to be linear. I've also been pretty liberal with some of them in terms of how much they're actually based on the song!As it's The Hunger, the themes throughout are pretty fucking dark and potentially triggering in places. I'll post separate warnings for each one, but as a rule they're pretty much all NSFW for violence and/or smut (varying degrees of graphic). 18+ only, should go without saying.NOTE: There's a non con warning for this one because Drew is technically not in a fit state to consent, however in her mind she is consenting.Song 9: Metric - Monster HospitalSynopsis: Drew doesn't understand Julian's new favourite kink.





	The Hunger Songfic Challenge 9: Metric - Monster Hospital

They're in his office, with its dank lighting and many screens. They transmit lifeless, unsettling images of all corners of the pentientiary, and Drew squints at them, holding onto Julian's arms around her waist to steady herself. She realises he's naked, his chest sturdy and warm against her back, and wonders at what point he undressed. She's simply fumbling through time, no consistent grasp on what's happening. Merely existing.  
Julian is kissing her neck, nibbling her earlobes, his fingers stroking her sides, and it's tender and soothing. She wants to tell him he's an asshole for doing this, for making her feel so woozy and slack and good, but her lips fail her, managing only an unintelligible sound.   
He laughs, and it sounds dim, far away. “Quiet, now,” he murmurs, wetly into her ear. “Playthings aren't supposed to talk, are they?”  
Drew thinks he might have drugged her again, but she has no recollection of any injections, or proffered orange juice that tastes like battery acid. Maybe he's found a new way. She's never completely understood this little kink of Julian's, why he enjoys it so when she's spaced out and unaware and drifting in and out of consciousness. He doesn't need to do it to get her to comply with his desires, and she doesn't need it to relax; she'd rather be fully conscious of her suffering, her screams of ecstasy, agony, as Julian torments and terrorises. Instead, she's left afterwards with only her marks, and flash recollections, images and fragmented scenes, like the remaining scraps of a lost monster movie. She might recall Julian's head between her legs, his mouth on her cunt, the pleasure pushing her deeper into her sedation, until he startles her alert with cruel bites to her inner thighs. She knows that sometimes he'll tie her up, even though she's already helpless in such a state; perhaps she'll remember the sensation of her wrists firmly bound behind her back, or above her head, or see the pink grooves on the skin there later. In one such memory, he had her on her back in their bed, lacing her fingers through hers, kissing her cheek as he smiled and tenderly made love to her. Somehow, this is the most disturbing memory of all.  
As Julian starts to pant his arousal, his kisses becoming wetter, more insistent, Drew makes an attempt to squirm out of his arms, but her limbs are like concrete, her muscles refusing to comply. So heavy does she feel that she's amazed at how easily he moves her across to his desk, folding her across it. He peels back the hem of her dress, reaching for her panties, and she whimpers, her vision growing hazy, dreamlike. The screens blur, double, in front of her as she lays her head on the desk, slipping away. She hears herself cry out as Julian's fingers twist in her hair, yanking her upright, forcing her to face the screens before them. The surveillance footage fizzles, like there's an interference in the signal, then disappears from the screen. “Look,” he commands.  
She's about to say, at what?, if her mouth, sluggish, slack, will comply. Then, as the screens start to play the video, porn of some kind – seedy, cheap, dated porn, some guy with a bad tan and a moustache fucking a blonde Playboy type young enough to be his daughter – she realises what this is. He wants her to watch this with him. Somewhere amongst the fog, curiosity pricks; Julian doesn't watch porn, to her knowledge, and even if he did, she'd never imagine this bland, sleazy sort of thing being to his taste. Still, she can feel his cock pressed against her buttocks, hard, insistent. The sensation of being so disconnected, yet being able to fucking feel everything so much, so intensely, horrifies her. Yet she's giddy, anticipating; needing to savour the moment as best she can, because in a few hours this whole sequence of events will be gone. Erased.  
Drew bucks against him in protest, though its a feeble gesture, as she hears the sound of material ripping; of Julian tearing her dress clean off of her body. He slams his hips against hers, jolting her into the desk; leans over her, breath tickling the back of her neck, as she whines in pain. She can feel her panties pooling around her ankles, falling to the floor as he effortlessly lifts and spreads her legs. “If you resist me one more time,” he says, taking her with one vicious, primal thrust, “I will really make you suffer, you little cunt.”  
He tightens his grip on her hair as he moves inside her, rough, selfish, and Drew howls at the tearing pain in her scalp, earning her a series of slaps to her behind until she manages to bite back her cries. As if rewarding her for controlling herself, he releases his hold, and she fights the overwhelming urge to let her head drop again, to lay down, to be a limp ragdoll for Julian to fuck and hurt as he pleases while she allows the drug to give her some peace. She can't fathom why he wants her to watch the film so much; it's classless and grotesque, the camera zooming in on the woman's face, flushed and clearly in pain, masking it by moaning like an angry horse as her creepy Casanova delivers terrible dialogue about bad girls needing to be punished.   
“What do you think, my love?” The sneering voice from above chills her, turns her on. “Do bad girls need to be punished?”  
Drew tries for words, but again they emerge mangled, unrecognisable. As Julian quickens his pace, she gasps, unable to resist bucking up against him for more. It hurts, feels incredible, and her head swims, her lead-heavy eyes beginning to close...  
They snap open again as a scream emerges from the speakers. She squints to focus, her vision duplicating, as the screens now display a woman bound to a wooden cross. Her dress has been pulled down to expose her breasts, the skirt of it bunched up, revealing thighs that are covered in red welts; she's whimpering, struggling, trying fruitlessly to shy away as a figure dressed in black cracks a cane against her skin. She hears Julian give a ragged sigh, his hand curling around her hip.  
“I do hope you're taking notes, girl,” he pants. His rhythm is already growing erratic. “Have you figured out what all this means yet?”  
With some effort, Drew shakes her head, feeling the heat rising in her cunt. Amidst her foggy thoughts, she wonders how the girl in the video feels, on display, suffering, unable to do a thing but wait for that next crack across her thighs... how she would feel, in such a position...  
Julian leans over her, a drop of sweat splashing onto her back, and the sensation is somehow electric. He pounds harder still into her cunt, releasing a guttural moan. “Shall we watch the last clip? Maybe it will... stir you as much as this one.”  
Drew can feel the heat in her cheeks, the shame as he laughs, sneering, low in her ear, knowing how the film arouses her.  
“Here we go.”  
The screen goes black for a moment, and Drew stares, trying to focus on Julian's weight slamming into her, his painful grip on her hip; anything to stop the drug from claiming her, pulling her under, as much as she desires it, because not only does she fear Julian's anger; she also really has to know what this is all about.   
Then, as the clip starts to play, her heavy eyes widen.  
“Remember this?”   
It's so cruel, so typically Julian, to ask such a thing, when he knows full well that of course she doesn't fucking remember; doesn't recognise the image of herself; subdued, sedated, dazed, glassy-eyed, prevented from crumpling to the floor by the shackles that hold her upright to the posts of the bunkbed in some non-descript cell; Julian standing over her, regarding her like a bird of prey, triumphant and sadistic. Drew is fighting hard now, trying to claw her way back to consciousness. It's useless of course, powerless and vulnerable and out of it that she is, and even the sinking, seeping realisation isn't quite enough to entirely snap her back...  
“Spelling mistakes,” he snarls. Groans, and she can tell from the way his shuddering breaths punch through his words that he's close. “Answering back... ignoring phone calls... all of it will get you here. Do you recall your little stunt today? Knocking things over in the infirmary, breaking them... you careless fucking bitch...”  
Julian drugs her like this to fucking punish her. So she has no clue it's happening; no deterrent to avoid fucking up. To avoid this happening again... fuck. She bargains with her brain, begs, squeezing her eyes shut as if that will help; trying to commit, to burn this, to memory, as the Julian on the screen shoves his hand down her pants, her figure, slack and pliable as a puppet, responding with a jerk and a cry. She has to focus... remember... can't bear watching herself, watching him, remembering nothing about this taking place...  
“You've been bad, Drew,” he taunts, as his thrusts escalate. Drew can't bear it, the pleasure, the confusion, the invisible hands pulling her deeper and deeper into her stupor. “Very, very bad...”  
The screen fades to black again, and Drew braces herself for whatever horrors will come next. In the ensuing silence, broken only by their frenzied, hungry moans, her orgasm catches her by surprise; her legs buckle, her fists clench, and her body slumps against the desk. The force of it triggering Julian's too, he collapses onto her with one final, jerking thrust, growling his release. She's pinned beneath his weight as his cum fills her, claims her, sticky, hot, both glorious and repulsive.   
“Benzos are a bitch, aren't they?” he whispers, weakly, recovering. “Especially well above the recommended dose.”  
Julian remains there for a moment or two, and Drew fights to draw air into her compressed lungs. She's fading, and her mind screams telepathic pleas to Julian to let her go, let her drift away. She chances looking up at the screens to see they've returned to displaying images of the yard, the halls, the front gate, and the flood of relief does nothing to help her remain alert.  
Then there's a gentle kiss to the back of her neck, and Drew's head lolls against Julian's shoulder as he easily hoists her upright. Scooping her into his arms like a bride on her wedding night, her flaccid legs dangling as she clings weakly to his neck, he carries her from the room down the hall to the nearest cell. With some difficulty he drapes her across the bottom bunk of those sterile, uniform jail beds, with their ugly green sheets that smell like years of musk and sweat. It feels to Drew like luxury, like the pure, spotless paradise of their own bed. In this state, it's easy to pretend that's where she is.  
Julian sits on the floor beside her, petting her hair like she's a treasured pet. “Sleep it off, my darling,” she hears Julian murmur, and the change in his demeanour is the sweetest relief of all. “You're wonderful. I love you.”  
There are times when she suffers through his games just to see this face of his, the tender, loving presence he can be, the side to him only she gets to experience. Sometimes it makes her despise him, the way he manipulates and teases and adores, but the rush of it all, the intimacy, the knowledge of the obsessive and destructive and sound, solid love that underpins it all keeps her here. Captivated, satiated only for moments, hours, until she needs more.   
For now though, she floats further still away as Julian strokes her face and whispers reassurances and declarations of love. He's the sweetest, most precious monster she's ever known.


End file.
